


Souvenir Shot Glasses

by itchyfingers



Category: Jaimie Alexander - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itchyfingers/pseuds/itchyfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Jaimie dance together, like they have so many times before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenir Shot Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fulfill a prompt: Tom and Jaimie dancing.

Jaimie poured the whiskey over the shot glasses, not caring about the liquor that spilled onto the table in an amber puddle. Water dripped from her short hair into the spilled whiskey and she ran her fingertip through it, smearing her autograph across the chipped laminate surface before she picked up one of the tiny glasses and threw back the liquid. She handed the other one to Tom. “It always comes back to this, doesn’t it?”

Tom let the Jameson burn down his throat before he answered. Even when it settled in his stomach like the glowing coals of a dying fire, he didn’t speak. He just drew her naked body into his arms and felt her fall into place pressed against him, one of her hands on the back of his neck, a whispered touch of her fingers against the hair at the nape of his neck, the other twined with his between their bodies. His other hand covered the small of her back, bare skin like silk as they moved slowly to the music, some Pandora station crooning the oldies with smoky voices full of lingering regret that made the beige airport motel room feel like it was shot in black and white and in the next room over Bogey and Bacall were sharing a cigarette and a smoldering kiss that burned hotter than the tobacco at their fingertips.

The scent of her was heady, whatever cinnamon caramel confection she had used to wash her hair or make her skin glow lingering like a veil around her. She smelled like she wanted to be tasted, so he lowered his lips to her shoulder. She was warm against his mouth and sweet under his tongue and as he kissed his way to the soft skin of her throat, the sigh she let out brushed over him like feathers from an angel’s wing. He was already half undressed, having arrived while she was in the shower, leaving the bottle of whiskey he always brought next to the two souvenir shot glasses she had purchased their first time at that little roadside gift stand in New Mexico. The quality of the whiskey he brought had improved over the years but they used the same shot glasses every time, their desert landscape faded and scratched from long use.

They swayed together, eyes shut, hearts beating in unison as they held each other. It transformed from late at night to early in the morning as they danced but there was no sign of the passage of time. There wasn’t any ambient noise even this close to the airport, and the light from outside was the jaundiced yellow of old bulbs illuminating an empty parking lot. The whiskey had gotten better but their accommodations had always stayed bad and cheap, dingy little places that no one would expect to be frequented by movie stars. It always came back to this, the two of them entangled, moving to the beat of the music or their own hearts, knowing that impossible love tasted like whiskey and the other person’s sweat.

Tom lead them closer to the table, picked up the bottle waiting there, poured another ounce down Jaimie’s throat and then put his thumb over the bottle’s mouth and dribbled the liquid over her shoulders, watching as the liquid pooled behind her collarbone and dripped off the peaks of her breasts. He drank from her body, using his tongue to ensure that he didn’t leave any of the alcohol behind as they continued to move to the music, her hands sliding inside the waist of his trousers to keep his hips moving in tempo. He grabbed for her hair to pull and bend her backwards but his hand closed around air. He wasn’t used to her short hair yet, and had to reach up and sink his fingers into the shorn locks, grip her scalp, pull her head backward, arching her up so he could follow the traces left behind to where amber drops still pooled on her skin.

He scratched his chin over the dusky nipple and Jaimie’s nails dug into the skin on his waist. His warm tongue ran across her breast, lapping at the drops of liquid and at her silken skin, working slowly, tortuously to her nipple that was hardening in anticipation. He could smell the sage and creosote from the first time they had sex in that little six-room motel in a New Mexico town memorable only for providing a bed and a liquor store. His mouth shifted to her nipple and in her gasp he could hear the sound of the ocean crashing against the sand outside his little Venice house where they would all gather for dance parties after a long day of filming, and where she would linger after everyone left.

He would dance with her, a shift from the rowdy club beats to slower heart beats and they would end up naked, twisted together, tangled in a braid of limbs and sheets and sweat, blanketed by the words neither of them would say. Feelings neither of them could say. She left the scent of her like a calling card in his sheets. They tried it once at her apartment, but it was too close, too real, too painful to have that brief moment of happiness in their own beds because then there was something to remember, to long for on the nights that they were alone, and to cast the nights that they weren’t alone into a pall of inadequacy.

So they went back to motel rooms, non-descript and interchangeable except for the smell of the air coming in from outside. This room didn’t have the scent of desert heat or ocean breezes. No pine with a whiff of freshly fallen snow. No spring rain and damp soil. Just smog and dusty concrete. The scents changed, but their steps didn’t. He brought her to the bed, laid down with her, kissed her body, all of her body, until she was writhing and moaning, and her fingers in his hair curled just like her toes as he kissed her most delicate flesh. She called his name as she came and it stabbed. Called his name in ecstasy and he wanted to hear it as she called him to dinner, called him to chase down their child who was making a mad dash across the park, called him to ask if she should pick up something for dinner on her way home from rehearsal.

Tom moved up her body, not kissing this time, moving with speed to silence her calling his name before he bled from the pain of it. He stopped her mouth with a kiss, letting her taste herself on his tongue before he put on a condom, always a condom to prevent the discussion of other partners who filled bodies and absences while they were apart, and pressed inside her, finding himself at home as her body stretched and embraced him.

He whispered her name once, “Jaimie,” and he could see the pain in her eyes like a mirror so he didn’t say it again. They held onto each other instead, moving slowly, drawing out this moment like taffy. It was wordless. The feel of her tongue, sweetly rough against his skin. The give of her skin as he gripped her waist, squeezed her breast, held her thigh as she wrapped her legs around him. The arc of her throat as he ran his fingers up it, tilting back her chin so he could feel her heart beating against his lips. The graffiti she left on his back with her nails.

Even prolonging the pleasure as much as possible, it had to come to its eventual end. Their foreheads rested against each other as his hips snapped forward a few last times.  Her breaths were in short quick pants, while his were deep staggered gasps that sounded like they hurt. The last rub, the last thrust, the last muscle stretched taut and waiting before they both came, reaching the climax together as they knew each other’s moves, Fred and Ginger after forty-seven rehearsals, dancing in perfect synchronization.

Tom left while Jaimie was sleeping. One of them always left while the other was sleeping. It was easier that way; no good byes necessary and no chance for awkward words to shatter the fragile lies they told themselves. So he pulled on his clothes and kissed nape of her neck. She kept pretending to sleep, just as he did when she was the one to pull on hastily discarded clothes and leave a farewell caress on his skin. The door closed behind him and he slumped against the wall, head falling back against the wallpaper, staring at the water stained tiles on the ceiling. He took a deep breath, the stale humid air redolent with cigarette smoke and dog and old coffee, and turned to look at the door handle. He reached for it, hesitated, let his fingers brush over the tarnished stainless steel, and then pushed himself to a stand and left.

There would be another motel room, another rendezvous, another stolen paradise surrounded by cracked asphalt and wilting weeds. Another time the whiskey would pour over scratched shot glasses. Another chance to dance with the woman he loved but could never have.


End file.
